


The Death of Silence

by etherscout



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherscout/pseuds/etherscout
Summary: You are an alchemist and conjurer who journeyed to Skyrim to hone your arts at the College of Winterhold. Unfortunately your plans were delayed when you were caught up in an Imperial ambush, and sentenced to death in Helgen. After narrowly escaping a grisly fate, you begin to get herself back on your feet, determined to make it to the college. But a chance encounter leads you down a much darker path.
Relationships: Cicero (Elder Scrolls)/Reader, Cicero/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Cicero/Listener (Elder Scrolls)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	1. The Farmer and The Fool

The plains outside of Whiterun were teeming with life, however the on the cobblestone road meandering north towards The Pale all seemed still. Save, that is, for the delicate white flakes drifting down from a murky gray heaven. You were sifting through sprigs of tundra cotton, searching for the perfect specimen for a barter fortification potion. Combined with a prime butterfly wing, you'd be able to smooth talk your way into nearly a thousand septims for a water breathing potion. It was the perfect plan, it would just take patience.

 _Nothing_.

You stood up, brushing off your dark robes. The chill in the air was growing worse as you continued along the road, but you had come this far already. You'd nearly gotten tangled up in a bandit attack on some ramshackle watchtower, for Oblivion's sake. There was no point in turning back until you either found what you were looking for, or wandered to the point that the grassy fields got overtaken by Skyrim's frigid tundras.

In the distance you spotted a cart, sitting crooked on the side of the road. As you drew closer you saw the wheel laying forlornly on the ground beside it. Nearby was a man, who, standing at full height came to just about your eyebrow. He was clad in crimson and black jester clothes, well worn even tattered in places. Atop his head was a fool's hat, hiding a striking copper mane. He paced, back and forth the length of his cart muttering under his breath. Your footsteps slowed to a halt.

“Are you alright?” You caught yourself asking before you were even sure what you wanted to say.

The fool stopped and turned on his heel. “Oh! A kindly stranger!” He approached you with a gleam his dark eyes. “Why, perhaps you could help!”

“Perhaps I can.” You replied, taking a step back. While you were willing to lend a hand, his frantic nature seemed to urge you to keep your distance. “I suppose that depends what you need.”

“Oh, poor Cicero is stuck, can't you see?!” He, Cicero, lamented. “I was taking mother to a new home! Well... Not her. Her corpse. She's quite dead.” He chuckled, and couldn't help but do the same. Even in times of crisis, he certainly was a lively fellow. “But... The wagon wheel! Damn wagon wheel!”

“That... that would do it.” You frowned.

“Do you see that farm, just off the road?” He gestured up the small dirt pathway behind him to the hill where a windmill sat proudly.

“What are you thinking?”

“The farmer, Loreius! He has tools! He could fix my wheel, if you could convince him.”

You pursed your lips. _Why can't Cicero go ask himself? Something's weird here_.

“I'll go have a word with him.”

* * *

You approached the farmer as he tended to his crops, leaning yourself against the fence surrounding the small plot of land. 'Excuse me, sir?”

The hoe fell from his hands and landed in the soil with an unceremonious thud. “Oh for the love of Mara, what now?”

You jumped slightly. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you, I just-”

“Didn't mean to bother me? You walked all the way up here!”

“That's... Entirely fair... I just wanted to ask you about something.”

“Make it quick.” He snapped, picking up his hoe and resuming work as if you weren't standing there. You felt your jaw clench despite yourself. This man's attitude was leaving a lot to be desired.

“Cicero – the jester down on the road – he uh, needs some help... With his wagon, specifically.”

The man gave a wry laugh. “Tell me something I don't know. Damn fool's already asked me about five times. Seems he's not satisfied with my answer.”

“I'm sure he'll pay you-”

“Pay me?! You think this is about money?!” He stopped his duties again. “He's transporting some giant box. Says it's his mother... Mother my eye. He could have anything in there. War contraband! Skooma!”

You sighed, resisting the urge to press your fingers into the bridge of your nose. “You want him out of your hair, right?”

“I think I've made that point clear enough.”

“You realize the only way to get him out of here is to get that wagon moving?”

He paused, only for a moment. Without losing his icy demeanor, he finally replied. “Fine, you tell him I'll be down in a bit to help.”

* * *

“He'll be down in a bit.” You grinned, watching the fool's face light up at your words.

“Oh thank you, thank you! _Thank you!_ ” He beamed. “Here! Some coin for your troubles.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small change purse.

You wanted to say no – to tell him it wasn't a problem, that you could do it for free. But you were desperate for money. “Thank you.” You managed, as he took your hand and placed the purse in your palm. Gently, suede gloves clasped your fingers around it.

“Shiny, clinky gold!” He smiled, patting your hands three times for emphasis. “And thank you, thank you again!”

“It wasn't a problem, Cicero. Good luck on your travels.”

“Same to you, Stranger! May your good deed be rewarded!”

“It's (Y/N).”

“Hm?”

“My name. (Y/N),”

He repeated your name once, twice, in a melodic tone. “Very nice to meet you, (Y/N)!”

“You as well.”

And as you turned to leave, you heard something,

A whisper carried on the wind. A murmur in the back of your skull.

An indecipherable voice that was there for an instant, and gone the next.

You looked to find the source, to see where it may have come from.

But you were left without a trace.


	2. The Child and The Corpse

Candlehearth Hall was filled with idle chatter, and the air was thick with the smell of seasoned venison being roasted over an open flame. You were sitting upstairs, with a book in your lap, nestled in front of a roaring fire. While Windhelm wasn't the most inviting city, you found yourself feeling at ease. You were safe, your pockets were heavy with gold, and for the first time since you arrived in Skyrim, you felt truly confident in your future.

Just a few more days and you'd be at the College of Winterhold.

As you sat, the murmurs of the other patrons began to catch your ear, pulling your attention away from your reading.

“Did you hear Aventus Aretino is trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood?” A voice you recognized as belonging to a snow haired Imperial woman.

“I have.” An unfamiliar man – Nord, by the accent – replied. “Foolish child. He doesn't know what he's getting himself into.”

“If he's taken part in the Black Sacrament... There's no way the boy doesn't know.”

_The Black Sacrament._

You'd heard the name before countless times – always in hushed tones and cautious whispers – but still weren't sure all of what it entailed. In fact, you were pretty sure most people who brought up this rite hardly knew a thing about it.

“He has.” The Nord's voice grew cold, like the winds tearing at the sides of the small inn. “You can hear the chanting in the small hours of the night. Terrible sound.”

Your mind begins to wander. Thoughts of this child sitting alone in his house, performing dark rituals kept circling back through your skull. Everyone knew what he was doing – everyone was nervous – so why weren't they trying to stop him?

 _Cowards_. You decided, pushing yourself to your feet and slipping your book into your backpack – a heavy bag made of wolf fur, a deep gray with flecks of white dotting it like stars. _I'll go see what this is about, since none of you will_.

* * *

You stood outside the door of the Aretino residence, your black cowl shielding your face from the harsh zephyrs blowing in from the north, and the flakes that pelted your face and clinked off panes of glass.

You knocked on the door.

Patiently, you stood there, as silence filled the roads.

But time crawled on, and there was no answer.

You peered around the corner, watching the guard continue his patrol down the icy street.

With freezing fingers, you pulled a lockpick and tension wrench from your pocket. It would be tricky in this weather, but you were sure you've picked nastier locks than the one on this rickety old door. It came with the territory of adventuring.

Slipping the tools into position, you began to rake the lock. Not a deft pick, but a jarring brushing against the pins, the metal catching in places. You ran the tip of the lock back and forth, clattering echoing through the night for only a moment before the door clicked open.

It wasn't the stealthiest way in, but it worked.

You slipped inside the house, locking the cold out behind you.

Once inside you could hear it – the chanting you'd heard tales about.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me. For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.”

And it repeated.

A boy – by the sounds if it, no older than twelve – muttered these words over the sound of... Something. A rhythmic stabbing of flesh – a sound you knew from cooking, from spats with bandits on the road, from places all less worrying than this.

You made your way up the steep, narrow staircase further into the tiny home.

It was sparsely decorated, with a thick layer of dust built up on seemingly any surface it could cling to. You slipped through a doorway, following the glow of candlelight. And as your eyes followed the warm glow down to the floor, your blood ran cold.

Hunched on the floor over a human effigy of meat and bone was a child. Between his small hands was a dagger, held in a white knuckle grip. He continued his chant as he stabbed at this makeshift carcass, sitting in a ring of candles and nightshade.

_I can't let him keep doing this. He has no idea what sort of dangerous shit he could get tangled up in._

_… I should leave. There's no telling what dangerous shit_ _**I** _ _could get tangled up in._

_Fuck... No... I can't just leave a kid like this._

“Excuse me...” You begin, causing the boy to jump. He drops the knife, and turns to look at you, with weary eyes and blood stained hands. “Are... Are you Aventus Aretino?”

His silence lingered for just a second, as his eyes grew wide. “I... I can't believe it!” He beamed, a toothy grin appearing on his face. “You're actually here!”

“What?”

“An assassin! From the Dark Brotherhood!”

“Huh? No, I'm-”

“I knew you'd come!”

“But I'm-”

“I've done the black sacrament over and over... with the body, and the things and... And now you're here!”

 _Over and over._ Those words broke your heart. How long was this kid stuck here doing this? It was hard to find words – impossible, maybe – and maybe that's why you stood there in silence, with a furrowed brow, searching aimlessly as he continued.

“Don't worry, you don't have to say anything, There's no need.” He reassured you, getting to his feet. “You're here, so I know you'll accept my contract.”

“Contract?”

“My mother... She... She died...” He began, voice wavering. “So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften, Honorhall.”

You didn't say a word. Simply let Aventus continue. You may have been the first adult to give him that chance since this whole ordeal began.

“The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the Kind, but she's _not_ kind. She's _terrible!_ To all of us! So I ran away! And I came home, and I did the Black Sacrament, and you're here! And now you can kill Grelod the kind!”

You let those words sink in – settle inside your brain for a moment as you mulled them over. If what he was saying was the truth, then maybe it would be wrong to interfere. Maybe this should be left up to the judgment of the ones meant to take her life. But if he was lying, or exaggerating, for some fucked up reason, then an innocent woman would die.

There was only one thing to do, you decided. You needed to go to Riften and see for yourself. Then, maybe you could rid yourself of this whole sordid affair.


	3. The Crone and The Decision

A gentle breeze rustled the gold and orange leaves, which blended seamlessly with the setting sun. The woods were alive, wolves and trolls milled about searching for their prey, while Spriggans stood vigilantly in clearings awaiting an intruder. Gourds grew squat, clinging to the bases of the birch trees that called the region home. The Rift, you decided, was beautiful.

It was unfortunate that the hold's main city had to be such a cesspool. From the shake down at the gate to the odor of the stagnant canal it was built upon, Riften was leaving a lot to be desired. You tried not to think of it as you headed to Honorhall Orphanage.

It was located on the far side of the city, tucked away past the marketplace and temple. If you hadn't asked a guard, you might not have found it at all.

The orphanage itself was small – cozy, would be the word, if the air around it weren't so oppressive. As you lingered in the entryway, obscured by shadows, you could see the headmistress in question, Grelod the Kind. The crone had a stern face, etched with time, and puckered as if she'd just tasted something foul. Her coarse silver hair was pulled into a tight, precise bun.

She stood in front of tiny a congregation of children. Though their clothes were washed and their hair combed, they all shared a similar haggard appearance.

“Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating.” Her voice was harsh, her words cold. “DO I make myself clear?”

“Yes Grelod.” A chorus of small voices replied.

“And one more thing! I will hear no more talk of adoptions!” It felt like you'd been punched in the gut. This woman couldn't really be talking like this to children. To _orphans!_ “None of you riff-raff is getting adopted. Nobody needs you, nobody wants you. That, my darlings, is why you're here. Why you'll always be here, until you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world. Now, what do you say?”

“We love you Grelod. Thank you for your kindness.”

The group dispersed, and you were left standing there trying to process what you'd seen.

Aventus wasn't lying – wasn't _exaggerating_. That woman was _horrible_. Those children deserved to be in the hands of someone loving and gentle. They deserves to have a chance at finding families, and warmth, and comfort. They deserved so much _better_.

As long as Grelod was around, those children would be trapped in misery. Sure, her years were numbered, but every day that passed was another day of damage done.

Someone needed to kill Grelod the Kind.

_I should just take care of it while I'm here._

_Wait, no. That's not okay._

_It's also not okay to just leave these kids suffering._

_I can't just kill her._

But maybe you _could_. You'd killed more bandits and cutthroats than you could count on your trip up from Cyrodiil. It never felt _nice,_ but you did what had to be done. All those bandits were people too. They had their own stories and aspirations that ended at your hand. You were already a murderer, though maybe not in this sense. But what's _stopping_ you? How is this any _different_?

As you watched a girl wipe tears from her tired eyes, you came to the only conclusion you could.

 _You_ needed to kill Grelod the Kind.

* * *

You returned to the orphanage under the cover of night, slipping out of the Bee and Barb under the pretenses of needing some air after one too many drunks. Nobody seemed to notice as you slipped off, past the marketplace, to the little orphanage in the corner of the city.

You sipped your first invisibility potion – one you brewed weeks ago from moth wings and Nirnroot that you just never found a use for.

You tried the door.

Locked.

 _Figures_.

You grab your lockpick and tension wrench and rake the lock. Once, twice, three times and four, and the door cracks open. You slip inside, slowly closing the door as to not make a sound.

At night the orphanage seemed almost homey, basking in the warm glow of the sconces that hung from the ceiling. The children were asleep in their cots that lined the walls of the main hall, and Grelod was nowhere to be seen. You figured she was through the door on the far wall, asleep in her bed, unaware of what was to come.

You made your way to the door, slowly, methodically, but never pausing. You only had one other invisibility potion, should anything go wrong. In other words, you were on a timer.

You cracked open the door and peered inside.

There laid Grelod, just as you suspected.

You closed the door behind you, noticing the way she shifted in bed at the click. She was a light sleeper. Someone like her ought to be.

You unsheathed your dagger – golden, made with elven craftsmanship – and pulled a small black vial from your pocket. You uncorked it, catching the a whiff of the acrid liquid inside. It was your most potent poison. One you kept on hand for the particularly ornery foes who wouldn't fall to your atronachs.

You wet the blade, and slipped the vial back into your pocket.

Cautiously, you approached her. She looked peaceful. She looked like a woman who might not deserve to die. But her words echoed through your mind. The sound of Aventus stabbing at the effigy as he pleaded the night mother to end Grelod's life played back inside your skull.

You breathe in, out, steady and steeling.

And you slide the blade across her throat.


	4. The Assassin and The Order

The wrinkled letter remained folded neatly in your pocket as you laid awake in bed, nestled in the furs of your sleeping bag.

“We Know” it read – nothing more, nothing less.

It was written in plain black ink, a hand print proudly displayed above it. A symbol you recognized – an omen that you had gotten yourself into something far worse than you could imagine. The symbol of the Dark Brotherhood.

You hired a bodyguard with some spare coin – 500 gold, to be exact, but pocket change when compared to your life. Instead of hitching a ride to Winterhold, you found yourself camping in the craggy mountainsides of the Reach, where prying eyes were unlikely to find you. Watching the silhouettes of sabre cats roaming under an aurora lit night sky, you prayed your eyelids wouldn't close. They hadn't for days, but they were growing heavy.

You were running out of options.

You'd have to sleep eventually.

* * *

It's impossible to say when it came for you – your last memory being your nose buried in a book of Sheogorath's myths, listening to the soft sound of Jenassa snoring from the adjacent tent.

But as you woke, you felt you breath freeze between your ribs. The warmth of your bed was no more – a rough wood floor beneath you. Your bones ached as you sat up.

You rubbed the last of the sleep from your eyes, and looked around.

You were in a dimly lit cabin, the sparse furnishings covered in dust and pressed flush to the crimson spattered walls. To your left sat three figures, clad in black hoods, hands bound in their laps as they knelt.

“Sleep well?” A woman's voice broke the silence.

“Who are you?” You forced past your dry throat and clenched jaw.

“Who I am doesn't matter as much as _what_ I am.” She crooned from atop the nearby bureau. “And what I am is an admirer of sorts.”

Your blood was running cold in your veins as you struggled to grasp your situation. “Then, where am I?”

“Does that really matter? You're warm, dry, and very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Grelod, hm?”

“You know about that?” Your heart lurched into your throat, beating in time with the blood rushing in your ears. _Get out of here. You need to get out of here_.

The windows were boarded. The door, likely locked.

“Half of Skyrim knows. Old hags gets butchered in her own orphanage? Word tends to get around.” She chuckles. “Oh, but don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming, and you saved a group of urchins to boot. Ah, but there is a slight... Problem...”

“Which is?”

“You see, that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood Contract. A kill... That you stole. A kill you must repay.”

“You want me to murder someone else.”

“I'm sure by now, you noticed my guests.”

Your attention turns back to the figures in the hoods. The strangers. The _people._

“I've collected them from... Well, that's not really important. The here and now, that's what matters. You see, there's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive.” She explained, swinging a foot freely from her perch. “But... Which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice, make your kill. I just want to observe, and... _admire_.”

You pursed your lips. “I kill one of them, the rest of us walk?”

“Provided you choose right.”

You wished you could pretend to weigh your options – to think on the right and wrong before you agreed to kill again. But you were cornered, and it was you, or them. And you'd be a fool not to choose yourself.

“Fine. I'll do it.”

“See? I knew we could resolve this. A debt owed must be repaid. You understand that... Well, get to it then. Pick your guest and send the poor fool to the void.”

You got to your feet, and, with unsteady gait, made your way over to the first in the line. He was a man – burly, clad in hide armor, with tufts of dirty blond hair poking from beneath the hem of the hood.

“What did I do?!” He sniveled. “Please! Whatever it is, I'm sorry!”

“Shh, it's alright.” You circled behind him. “Nobody's getting hurt. Not yet. I just need you to tell me who you are.”

“My name is Fultheim.” He began. “I'm a soldier. Well, mercenary, really. You know... A sellsword. I've lived in Skyrim all my life... That's all! I'm a nobody! Really! Can't you just let me go?!”

“There's plenty of reasons someone would have a sellsword killed. Can you think of any?”

“What? Oh gods, I don't want to die.” His voice broke as his body wracked with sobs.

“Shh.. It's okay... I just need you to work with me.”

“I... I guess it's possible. I've been selling my sword arm for years now. Killed a lot of people. Could be someone wanted revenge. But... But you're not going to kill me, right?”

You turned, without speaking another word, and stepped behind the woman. She was frail, though sat with her head held high. Her hands were covered in gloves, her arms marked with dirt. This woman was a laborer – a farmer, perhaps. “Who are you?

“None of your damned business who I am!” She barked. “If you're going to kill me just do it already! With Mara as my witness, if I didn't have this hood on I'd spit in your face!”

You crossed your arms. “Can you think of any reason you're sitting here right now.”

“I'm a woman living in Skyrim with six children and no husband. I don't have the time or patience to be 'nice'. Do some people look down on me? Have I made some enemies? Your damn right.”

You decided in that moment to spare her. Whether she was the guilty party or not, that wasn't your motive anymore. Your motive was to get out of here without doing more damage than encessary, and if she was telling the truth, killing her would damage six little lives. If the Dark Brotherhood decided to kill her afterwards, that was their choice. It wouldn't be yours.

“Thank you.” You replied, and continued on to the final guest.

He was a Khajiit, wearing his fortune as jewelry and fine textiles.

“And last, but certainly not least. We have _you.”_

He gave a grim chuckle in response.”Whoever this is, clearly we got off on the wrong foot. Ah, but no worries, this isn't the first time I have been bagged and dragged.”

“I don't know if you're helping your case.” You shift as you tower over his hunched form. “Why don't we start with introductions?”

“Ahhh... Vasha, at your service. Obtainer of goods, taker of lives, and defiler of daughters. Have you not heard of me?” He asks with faux curiosity. “Perhaps I will have my people carve my name in your corpse as a reminder.”

Your lip curled in disgust. You looked to your right, to the mother and the sellsword, and realized your decision had already been made. You would feel cleanest with the cat's blood on your hands – that is the only thing you were certain of.

You unsheathed your dagger – the very blade that had gotten you into this mess – and plunged it into his throat. You pulled the blade along cables of flesh, severing them with ease as blood stained the tear in his fur.

He fell to the ground limp.

The woman beside you recoiled, as Fultheim balked, “You _killed_ him!”

“Better him than you.” You spat back, before you could catch yourself. You didn't want to kill _any_ of them, if they couldn't tell. Everyone left would be better off being grateful they're still alive. You turn your attention to the woman in the corner of the room. “Alright. It's done.”

“The conniving Khajiit.” She mused. “Cat like that was sure to have enemies. It's no wonder you chose him.”

“So, who was it?”

“Oh. No, no, no. Don't you understand? Guilt, innocence, right, wrong.... Irrelevant. What matters is I ordered you to kill someone, and you obeyed.”

You stood there, trying your best to act unshaken. “We're all free to go now, right?”

“Of course. And you've repaid your debt in full. Here's the key to the shack.” She tossed you a small, rusty key, that clinked off the floor at your feet. You bent down and clutched it desperately between bloodstained fingers. “But why stop here? I say we take our relationship to the next level. I would like to officially extend to you an invitation to join my Family. The Dark Brotherhood.”

“Would you?”

“In the southwest reaches of Skyrim, in the Pine Forest, you'll find an entrance to our Sanctuary. It's just beneath the road, hidden from view. When questioned by the black door, answer with the correct passphrase: 'Silence, my brother'. Then you're in. And your new life begins.”

You glanced down at the key in your hands.

Not rust. _Blood_.

“I'll see you at home.”


End file.
